


Waves

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gardener Castiel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 12:32:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>another piece for the gardenverse ♥ angsty pwp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waves

A drop of rain falls from the ceiling, and lands between Dean’s shoulderblades.

Castiel watches its slow progress, the way it rolls down the long, tapering line of his back. Dean is sitting up, naked, legs curled beneath him; Castiel lies still on the floor, staring up.

Dean shivers when the raindrop hits, casts his eyes towards the ceiling. “Sprung a leak,” he says softly, and Castiel merely nods, eyes rapt on the travel of that lone raindrop; how it dips in the hollows of Dean’s spine, finds it way. How it leaves a trail behind, slight watery sheen. The raindrop expends itself, eventually; is whittled away to nothing before it reaches the foot of Dean’s spine. Castiel raises a hand to trace the lines of Dean’s broad arm as Dean says, “Should fix that.”

Castiel murmurs something in response, he isn’t sure what; he’s distracted by the noise, the raucous calling of the rain outside. There’s a window open somewhere (there always tends to be) and the summer heat has given way to this precious storm, rain slapping hard against the ground, the flowers, the paths outside. Everything is awash, saturated; the colours thicker, darker. Even the light inside seems somehow deeper, no lamps on, no hearth.

Another raindrop falls from the ceiling, a small, transparent ball, and it lands on Dean’s forehead. He laughs. “Cas?” he tries, then his face falls a little. “Are you listening?”

He turns his gaze to Dean, then, and his fingertips skim across the folds of Dean’s elbow, the soft skin on the underside of his wrist. Today is the last day, and sometimes it seems as if the last day comes quicker than all the others; their first goes fast, joyous, and then all too soon, again, it is time to let go.

He slides his heels across the floor, drawing his knees up. It’s stupid to do this here; Dean complains of backache, worries that they’ll hurt each other, flagstones ungentle beneath them. But naked, here on the ground, he feels closer to the earth than he’s ever been before. He wonders if he could lie outside, alone, and still feel so  _organic;_ with Dean,  _on_ Dean,  _in_ Dean, he knows a coalescence he can never find elsewhere. When they come together, everything makes so much more  _sense._

But today is the last, always the last, and the back door is swinging open beside them, unlatched.

Dean looks at him for a long moment, then turns towards the door. It rattles on its hinges, pushed by the wind, and he hesitates. “Hold on,” he says, and moves as if to lift himself from the floor, but Castiel’s hand tightens on his elbow.

“Stay,” he says quietly, and Dean looks so stricken he wishes he could push the words back inside his mouth.

“Floor’s getting all wet.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” Dean looks down at his arm, where Castiel is holding him so fiercely. He closes his eyes.

“Cas, please don’t ruin it, you  _know_ I have to.”

Castiel sits up, drawing his knees as close to himself as he can. He wraps his arms around them; the cold floor seeps through his naked skin. He is loose of limb, loose everywhere; he’d laughed and begged Dean to lie down with him here –  _here? Yes, here, just here, a laugh, a fumble -_  but he has lain here mostly in silence since it ended. Since Dean muttered,  _Love you, love you,_ into the hollow of his throat. “Please.”

Dean shifts, no longer such a languid shape. He grinds the heel of his hand into his eye, as if trying to evade sleep. “Look, get up, we’ll – we’ll go for dinner or something, go for a walk.”

Castiel’s fingers grip him tighter. “How long do we have?”

In the pause that follows, rain slams the ground outside. He can smell the grass from where he’s sitting; the back door thumps a quiet rhythm, swinging.

“Cas.”

Castiel looks Dean in the eyes again, and almost crumbles.

He looks, sometimes, at the other wavers on the dock. The wives, the children; all smiling, all pattering their cheerful goodbyes. He does the same;  _goodbye, I love you, I miss you._

Dean doesn’t know that sometimes when he leaves Castiel is so angry that he’ll kneel in the flowerbeds and scream through gritted teeth.  

“Okay.”

He leans over, hand still gripping Dean’s arm, and kisses him. Fits his free palm to Dean’s collarbone. “Don’t get up yet,” he murmurs quietly, and Dean sighs a little; laughs. He leans his forehead on Castiel’s.

“Okay. You’ve got me.”

All of what Castiel wants to say, then, is lost in his next murmur; is pressed into his next kiss.

He coaxes Dean to lean back; lays him out, so careful, on the floor. One hand cups the back of his head; he threads the fingers of his other with Dean’s.

The first time they were quick; he doesn’t mind about speed, any more. Not when it so often feels like every second counts. They’ll get there, one way or another, whether it’s by fingers, hands or tongue.

But this time, first frantic fumble out of the way, it takes time. He sits astride Dean’s hips, touching him everywhere; memorizing. He avoids Dean’s eyes until the last moment; until Dean takes his chin in his hand. “Cas,” so hushed, “You still with me?”

He nods. He says, “Yes,” barest edge of a word. Leaning back, he can feel Dean; the warm, hard length of him, nestled in the curve of his backside.

It’s easier the second time, as if they’ve been broken in; he simply rises up, takes Dean in hand; guides him, carefully, inside. Sits back on his hips and just  _breathes._

They look at each other for a long, shuddering moment. Dean is usually noisy, exultant, but now neither of them say anything at all, until Castiel starts to move.

He plants his hands against Dean’s chest, palms splayed; rocks back and forth, rising up onto his knees, pulling up and letting Dean slide almost all the way out, then sinking back down again. Slow.

Dean’s hands fumble; land on his knees, gaze wide, blown-open. He makes breathy, cut-off noises at every downward push, fingers tightening on Castiel’s flesh. Just once, he says, “Cas.”

Leaving one hand on Dean’s chest, Castiel reaches back to wrap a hand around himself; brushes a thumb at the head, a careful twist, up and down. He times it with the pace of Dean drawing in and out of him, pushing down a little harder, a little faster, each time. For a moment he can’t hear anything except their breaths just that little out of sync; except the door to the garden swinging wide with the wind, slamming shut again. Every time it swings open, rain patters on the floor.

Dean’s hands wander, touching them everywhere; he leans up a little and puts his hand between Castiel’s legs to feel where they’re joined; Castiel dimly registers Dean’s fingers underneath him, tracing the sensitive flesh with strange reverence. Dean skims his fingers up from Castiel’s rim; presses gently behind his balls, then up again to where Castiel’s hand works at himself, grip tight, fingers wet.

Dean gently pries his hand away and takes over; he distorts the rhythm. He makes Castiel tip his head back on a gasp; murmur things he doesn’t mean to say, like  _Dean,_ and  _Yes,_ and  _please._ He tilts back into it, pushing down harder, taking Dean deeper inside himself.

He makes a raw, wild sound when Dean’s hand brings him to the edge and tips him over it; spills, warm and wet, and it drips into the hollow of Dean’s navel. His muscles clench; Dean says his name and cants his hips, meeting Castiel as he pushes down, not letting him pull too far away. He blurts something, but it is lost in the roar of the weather outside, and Castiel doesn’t ask him to repeat it. He reaches for Dean’s hand, laces their fingers together, and squeezes it tight. It’s enough.

Dean lifts his hips, pushing up, in, one final time, and then he is shaking underneath Castiel as he comes, holding his hand so tight Castiel doubts his ability to ever extricate one hand from the other.

Dean pulls him forward, slipping out of him as he does it, mess dripping and smearing on his stomach, between his legs. He surges up to kiss Castiel’s mouth, lips open wide, teeth catching. He breathes ragged, helpless, against Castiel’s cheek. He gathers them close together; the air around them smells of sweat and rain and sex. Salt, all around.

“You know I wouldn’t go if I didn’t have to,” he says, and Castiel nods reluctantly against the side of his face. “I love you so much.”

Something wet trails down Castiel’s cheek, where it is pressed against Dean’s. He doesn’t know if it’s the ceiling dripping, or something else entirely.

“I know,” he says, and turns his head to kiss Dean’s jaw. “I know. I’m sorry. I know.”

Dean holds him; strokes his hair. Castiel lifts his hands to the back of Dean’s neck, and holds him in return. Outside, the rain is thick and heavy as before.

—-

He goes, of course; he always does.

But before that; after they finally lift themselves, laughing, from that strange twilight of the kitchen floor; after they dress, and bathe, and pretend that the world is usual again; they hold each other’s faces. Press their foreheads together.

“Be back before you know it,” Dean mumbles, and kisses him. Castiel tries a smile, and nods.

It’s true, he’ll be back. He’ll be back, and gone, and back, and gone again.

Something inside Castiel still wants to spit and rage at the  _unfairness_ of it all; but he doesn’t.

He follows Dean to the docks, and holds his hand until the last second.

He stands at the edge of the pier, hand in the air.

Waves; smiles. 


End file.
